Such Great Heights
by 00010111
Summary: She is admiring you, but you don’t realize it and look away, feeling some twisted form of shame. Musicalverse Elphaba/Galinda.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Wicked.

**Note:** I was experimenting with different POVs for a writing workshop and it might not work well, but it was fun to try.

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**Such Great Heights**  
By Elizabeth Odessky

You're not a child anymore. You're a woman.

You certainly don't feel like a woman (which, to you, seems even more awkward than not feeling quite like a child), but somehow the stars aligned and the powers that be, if they even exist, decided that you're a woman, and you're not quite sure how you feel about that.

(It just doesn't seem . . . proper. Things were supposed to change once you became an adult, right? You were supposed to be looked at differently, regarded with at least as much respect as was due to every other adult.)

And your roommate – you're not quite sure how to feel about her either. Those friends, that attitude and that _smirk_, seem to serve no other purpose than to get under your skin and drive you mad.

She says – proclaims, really – that the two of you are friends, but at moments she seems like anything but. She calls out to you, using that unbearably _not you_ nickname, but you don't respond. You continue to drum your fingers in a steady rhythm on a text, hunched over your work. She calls you again, and you ignore her again.

Suddenly your papers are yanked away and tossed god knows where in a blur of cream and pink, and you attempt protest, but for some unexplained reason, it only comes out halfhearted. Your mind is unable to form even a singular thought because then she is on you, lips applying pressure in all the right places to get you to open up and let her in. You let out a reluctant moan, which she quickly swallows.

Her hands trace your contours, from your collarbone down your ribs, pressing hard enough not to tickle but gentle enough not to cause any discomfort (you almost wish it did), and down your torso and thigh to the hem of your skirt, which is suddenly more constricting than you remember it being.

Her lips abandon yours to trail across your cheek. You turn you head, and her lips find your ear, and you realize for the first time that you are both shaking, whether from passion or from nerves, you don't know, and can't find it in yourself to care as a small hand tangles in your hair, the other fingering the buttons on your blouse. She tugs the first three buttons open before pulling back, eyes darting to meet your own, a question hanging unspoken in the air.

You nod and offer a shaky smile, and she pulls you up, settling in your lap as she rids you of your blouse and, with shaking hands, your brassiere. Then she pushes you back into the pillows, palms flat on your stomach, and looks at you (she is admiring you, but you don't realize it and look away, feeling some twisted form of shame).

She pushes down, almost uncomfortably she knows, and leans forward, pressing her lips to your chest, teeth scraping across sensitive flesh in what is almost a caress and almost a scolding. You shift and gasp, and she lifts her head to laugh, but you grab a handful of those infuriating golden locks and bring her back down, biting your lip when she turns her attention to your other breast.

Her hands are everywhere at once, it seems; pushing up your skirt and pulling your remaining undergarments away in a rush as her lips meet yours again, tongue taking advantage of your open mouth. Fingers brush up against you, and you jerk forward (quite involuntarily, you insist later. She smirks at you, reveling in it.), away from her lips. You bite down hard on her collarbone in an attempt to keep quiet as she develops a steady rhythm, your fingers scraping, clawing, through layers of cloth to leave marks on her back. Her lips cease their assault and still to rest on your neck, feeling for your pulse with feather light kisses.

It's not long before you feel yourself tighten and shake around her, and you bury your face in the crook of her neck, eyes clenching shut, all coherent thought lost. She pulls back as you relax, wiping her hand on the hem of her own skirt (an almost masculine reaction that strangely makes her all the more attractive) and raising it to cup your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with her thumb.

You pull her close, wrapping your arms around her and running your fingers through those curls. She smells of perfume and sweat and sex, her breathing warm and steady against your shoulder.

"I love you," she whispers.

And you're almost inclined to let her.


End file.
